


Protective Detail

by Hedwig_Dordt



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Gen, If You Squint - Freeform, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-23
Updated: 2013-04-23
Packaged: 2017-12-09 07:11:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/771450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hedwig_Dordt/pseuds/Hedwig_Dordt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone assumes that Q got his job hacking into MI6 files. The truth is both more mundane and more exciting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Protective Detail

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Fightyourdragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fightyourdragon/gifts).



> For the lovely Fightyourdragon's birthday.
> 
> An AU wherein Bond and to-be-Q meet before Skyfall.
> 
> now with improved legibility.

The assignment is easy enough: get into Lida, Belarus, get the package out, get him back to London safe and sound. Which is what I did. In a way. Simple enough job, though I was happy for it, given that I was strictly speaking still on leave. 

I take a charter flight to Warsaw, get a car at the airport, and drive to Lida. Check in at the hotel, and touch base with HQ.  
“007, you need to get moving. The package is under strain.”  
“Copy that. On my way.” I ring off. I check at the obvious places for bugs and cameras. I find none, so I drive onto the site where the package is being held. Abandoned factory. I know, right? I check my comm, check my ammunition, and start recon.

A scawny kid has been tied to a chair, wearing nothing but a t-shirt. Not nice when it's four degrees Celsius out. And he has no body fat whatsoever. His lips are getting blue and I can hear him shivering. I count the exits (2, maybe 3 if it weren't for the kid), count the number of negatives (3) and go for it. I shoot the mobsters from cover, and untie the scawny kid. He faints when the restraints come off, so I carry him into the car, and drive back to the hotel. I use the prepaid cell to call ahead to order extra blankets and hot water bottles.

Which brings me to the next step: not only was I to return the package, safe and sound was also very much in the brief. The blankets and bottle had been delivered when we return. I put the boy in the bed. First off: touching base with the quartermaster.  
“Package secure?”  
“Practically frozen, but secure. I'll keep an eye at him, we're coming in tomorrow.”  
I sighed deeply and did my bit for Queen and country: I snuck in with him. I will tell you now, there's nothing sexy about sharing a cover with someone who has hypothermia. She'll feel cold, cold and cold, and they're generally unresponsive. It's a serious medical condition. Even if his arse is velvet soft, which I am decidedly not noticing. I put my arm around his chest. He lets out a bit of a moan and settles against me. No wonder he's in a world of trouble.

The next morning he is no longer in the bed. I assume that is a good thing, because I am a professionally light sleeper. But he is not in the bathroom. I curse and put my trousers on.  
“Room service!” comes a voice from outside.  
“Give me a second!” I yell as I button up my shirt. I open the door.  
“Who ordered room service?”  
“Your cousin, just before he left. Said you could do with a spot of breakfast.”  
I purse my lips. This was not supposed to happen. I weigh my options: tell HQ now, or fix it first. I go with the latter. I look for my phone... and find it missing. As is my coat. “Shifty bugger”, I curse, though professionally, I have to admit he's thorough. For an amateur. I go over my options: no phone, no coat. For some reason the kid did choose to forego my gun. I weigh my options, but given that he has effectively cut off my communications, I decide to do it the old-fashioned way: by myself. I put on an extra jumper and take the car into town.

I park the car on city square to start a deeper search. The phone booth on main street is ringing, though the street is mostly is deserted. Which means it s probably for me, but I am decidedly not in the mood for a scolding. On the other hand, HQ may have intel on the package. I pick up the receiver.  
“Earl Grey.”  
“With lemon. The package has checked in.”  
“What? How?”  
“He contacted Tanner. Tanner sent him to the local museum. Do you think you can find that?”  
“I can.”  
“The instruction remains to bring him to London, safe and sound.”  
“And I will.”  
“Apparently he got spooked. We gave him a code to make establish that you are who we sent for him. The code is National Gallery.”  
“He's anxious to get home, then? I'll see you in London.”

I cross the city, a little rushed. I try to tell myself that it is because I am not sure the cartel has discovered that their pretty cargo has been moved. When I find the museum in the afternoon, I exhale deeply before going in to buy a ticket. I practically break into a run through the street. The kid is sitting in front of a painting, listening to the audio guide. I sit down next to him.  
“The National Gallery.”  
“Ah, it is you then. I guess I should apologise for running off?” he offers.  
“Does that usually work?”  
“Apologising or running off?”  
He shrugs.  
“Okay, here it is: as you've heard, I'm with MI6 and I am to return you safely to London.”  
He looks me over, purses his lips and nods. No apology then.  
“Let's go, it's a long drive.”  
He follows me out of the museum to the car.

"Do you even know how to drive?"  
I ask him. "Yes. But strictly speaking, I don't really have a licence."  
"That means you're taking first shift." I toss him the keys. It's a Ford Focus, and a rental. I just hope the safety measures are as advertised. When the kid starts the engine and drives off efficiently, I exhale, shuffle under my coat and close my eyes. And then I wake up because we've stopped. We're on a parking lot.  
"My two hours are up, your turn."  
We get out of the car, I smoke a cigarette. He stretches, and I decide not to notice the curve of his hip bones. Or the cream-coloured skin. That can only get me in trouble. He bends forward, putting his hands on his elbows, to stretch his back, presumably. I do not stare at his arse. Well, I try not to. I'm not sure it's legal.  
"Let's get going, elastiboy", I say, getting into the car. He gets into the passenger side and abjust the chair.  
"So what got you into this kind of trouble?" I ask.  
"It's a bit of a long story."  
"It's a long drive, take your time."  
He goes quiet. I almost give up the idea of conversation, when he starts talking.  
"I ran up a quite a bit of debt."  
"You don't seem the type for obvious vices." I interrupt.  
"The type?"  
"Not acclimatised to violence, no needle marks, skin in age appropriate condition…"  
"Is that a joke about my spots?"  
"No. Would you like one?"  
"I'd really rather not.” His mouth goes all prissy, which makes me smile a bit. “No, it's rather mundane. Student loans. Not poor enough for aid, not rich enough to pay my own way, and it took me a while to figure out what I wanted to study. I took a BA in linguistics, and some courses in engineering before I found computer science."  
"And?"  
"Took to it like a duck to water. But by then, my debt had risen substantially. So, I ehmm… used my skill set."  
"What? You're a cunning linguist?" Jesus, it sounds even worse when I say it out loud.  
"No, nothing like that."  
The kid is blushing. Actual honest-to-god rosebuds on his cheeks. Seriously, I thought they discontinued that line in the 1950s. Christ, I'm in so much trouble.  
"No, I ehmm… how do I explain this? How much do you know about online poker?"  
"Enough to stay out." I omit the bit where I do actually play in casinos. I would rather not go into that story again.  
"Excellent choice. Now, what I did is manipulate the algorithm. Not much, but enough to win."  
"I hear a problem coming up."  
"Well, what I hadn't realised when I started, it was not just a scam to get money out of player's pockets, but also a money laundering operation. When I got an inkling something else was going on, I was intruiged, so I followed the trail."  
He bites his lip. I have to really stop noticing his mouth.  
"But by then, they were on to me. So when the trail went to an international maffia-like gang with ties to governmental organisations in... certain countries I will not name. I put all the documents in a zipfile and left them in MI6's inbox.  
"What, you sent an email to info@mi6.co.uk?"  
He grins, "No, by then I had, well ehmm, access to the MI6 system. So I left it in a certain Mr. Tanner's inbox. With my contact details. You know, in case I'd have to testify or something."  
I quirk an eyebrow: "MI6's solutions rarely end up in court."  
"I wonder why."  
"You cheekiness is recovering."  
He looks me over. "You like it." It's a statement of fact. I decide the better course of action is to shut up. He continues: "Of course, Tanner never got back to me, but when I was taken, well, you showed up. So I guess the message got through."  
"Formally, I'm still on leave."  
"So what did you do?"  
"Got into a fight, lost an important thing my quartermaster spent hours on and/or got shot. Take your pick."  
"You're not very careful with what's important, then?"  
"What's important in the greater scheme of things?"  
"Your health?" He ventures. I bark a laugh.  
"Yes mother. And make sure I take my vitamins."  
"How did you get shot?"  
"I was a bit woozy from a whack to the head. So they got my gun. I figured a way out, of course, but… you know."  
He frowns.  
"I can see the gears in your head working."  
"It's probably nothing."  
"It's a long ride."  
"I'm wondering… No, best not to trouble your pretty head with tech engineering."  
I look to my right. He's grinning at me. I smile back.

He goes decidedly quiet when he discovers we are headed for an airport. He is turning white when I park the car. He is shaking when I check us in.  
“Something the matter?”  
“I'm not...overly fond of flying.”  
I arch an eyebrow.  
“And that's on the good days”, he adds.  
“And today?”  
“I'm not sure yet.”  
I contemplate the situation.  
“No sedatives?”  
He shakes his head.  
“You realise it is irrational, right?”  
He huffs. He gets onto the plane with me, though. Even if he seems dangerously close to collapsing. Before I can stop myself, I put a hand on his abdomen, ignoring the jolt of electricity it sends to my stomach, and whisper: “Breathe. To my hand. You'll start hyperventilating.” He does, and for a bit it works. I take loud, slow breaths with him. We breathe through take-off. I request tea -and a scotch for myself. We're over Germany, and I'm dozing when I hear him whisper “Thank you.”  
“You're welcome”, I mutter, opening one eye.  
“Oh God, you're awake. I'm so sorry.”  
He's flustered again.

When the plane lands in Fitton airfield, I turn on my phone to check in.  
“Take him to Q-branch. And Tanner wants a word with him. There's debrief afterwards.”  
“Will do. Come on kid, you're wanted at MI6.”  
He goes a bit white on the nose, and gets in on the passenger side.

So when I'm sent to the National Gallery ten years later, I'd honestly forgotten about the scawny thing. He turned out pretty nicely.


End file.
